


i like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it.

by wolfgangshaw (likeswimmingg)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon Divergent, F/F, Femslash, Person of Interest, Root - Freeform, Samantha Groves - Freeform, f/f - Freeform, gay angst, samaritan, sameen shaw - Freeform, shoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-01-22 07:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12476876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeswimmingg/pseuds/wolfgangshaw
Summary: Shaw keeps sleeping with Root and she can't quite figure out why.





	1. hurricane.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a one shot, but after a while it turned into this large thing. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it. As per usual feedback is welcome.
> 
> Follow me on twitter @wolfgangshaw for Shoot breakdowns and angst.

_i. before you go, turn the big light off._

The first few times you spend the night with Root you convince yourself it's just an itch you need to scratch. The rogue hacker turned analog interface didn't know when to stop pushing your every button, and to your dismay and annoyance, your scowl and glares didn't seem to work on her either. Somewhere along the way, all of the flirting and the jabs had started to work on you though, and that’s not something you’re okay with.

You're not surprised that Root wound up in your bed after assisting you with a few numbers. But you are keen on keeping it discreet. Only one time - well, after the ten hours in that CIA safe house, what else were you supposed to do to kill time? - that was your cap off.

You’d never let Root know the internal struggle you’ve had about this, although you're positive that the moans that escape your mouth when she hits the right nerve endings may have let that particular cat out of the bag.

The smirk on her face as she rolls off of your calescent body makes you want to punch her square in the jaw, but for some reason, this time you refrain.

Harold would be pissed, you reason with yourself, and that's enough for you to get on with it.

“No post coital cuddle?” Root snickers, already in teasing mode, and you’re not surprised by that either. She pulls her shirt on, not bothering to put on a bra and you feel your eyes drawn to the skin underneath the sheer article of clothing. You forget to scoff, but it's fine. “I hate to leave so quickly, but duty calls.”

It’s convenient that Root doesn't force you to kick her out of your apartment. You're not above pulling a gun on her, but you'd rather not wield a weapon naked if it isn't in a sexual context (it wouldn't be the first time though).

“The Machine?” You inquire from the bed, sitting up out of sheer curiosity.

You wonder what it would be like to have a surveillance intelligence whispering in your ear whenever the world needs something. To help to put together pieces of a puzzle that the rest of humanity can't see, letting the chips fall wherever the ASI says they should.

Frankly, it’s not something you’d agree to lightly or had ever considered before meeting Root. Taking orders from a human, whether in the Marines or the ISA was all you knew . Even if the Machine was behind the latter of your employers, you never knew about it so it technically didn’t count.

You were almost in awe of Root for not thinking twice about becoming the Machine’s mercenary, humouring its every whim.

Almost.

“Like I said,” Root said flatly, pulling on her tight jeans. The sight made you frown, because as far as you were concerned, Root with her clothes off was the only Root you could stand. “Duty calls.”

Logically you know something is weighing on Root’s mind, but if you prod further, you may not like what you find. A pandora's box of sorts. And that’s something this arrangement between you and Root was never meant to be.

It’s that thought that allows you to settle back onto your sea of pillows and sheets as Root steps out of the room and the front door clicks shut.

_ii. before you go, (please don't go) turn the big light off._

Weeks later, lips cover yours before the door of your apartment is fully open on its hinges. You're not exactly complaining about the tug on your bottom lip and Root’s hands on your hips, but there's something off about the way she moves. Like watching something through the static of an old television screen.

Maybe it's the fate that looms over the team. That someday soon Samaritan will swallow New York City whole and there won't be a damn thing any of you could do about it. Or perhaps it's something else entirely, but you get the thought out of your head all the same.

Root is silent, which is an even bigger indication that something is wrong. You don't say anything about it. It's not how the two of you work.

Not that you give a damn. It's just a mere observation as you grab her ass through tight black jeans and suck on her pulse point.

Root rips her shirt off and yours follows soon after. You forget all about what was left unsaid because the only thing you can think to care about is the throbbing below your belt. You shove your tongue down Root’s throat then and guide her to the couch without disconnecting your mouths from one another.

She tops you, her lengthy, slender legs on either side of you and her golden tresses thrown over her thin shoulders while she bites your neck. It makes you want to fuck away whatever happened before she stepped through your door. You plan to as soon as you get what you want.

It's why she came to you in the first place, you suspect.

You pull at Root’s hair as she messily sucks on your pulse point, over your collarbone and down to your chest. She removes your bra in a swift motion and you help her peel off your jeans. It isn't until Root slides your underwear down to the floor and her face is between your legs that you realize how naked you are and how clothed she still is.

“Fuck,” you can't help but moan as Root hits where you need her to with her tongue and you come as her intensity and speed increases.

It's almost embarrassing how fast Root makes you come, but the fact that she knows your weak spots and hits them with precision is something most people in the past weren't able to achieve.

Root smirks slightly as she wipes her mouth, but it never quite reaches her eyes.

That isn't something you're okay with, so you remove her bra, her jeans and her underwear and toss them on the floor next to yours.

You shove a naked Root against the back of the couch, a hand around her slender neck as you kiss her hungrily. You then throw her against the opposite wall and she groans not unpleasantly. You scratch down her back with your fingernails and that elicits even more of a reaction out of Root. You know she's turned on, but you can't help but push her boundaries like she usually does yours.

You're teasing Root until she's practically begging for it, “Shaw, please,” but you move the two of you to the comfort of your bed so you can fuck Root properly.

When Root comes three times in an hour and a half, you're sure she's forgotten about whatever was weighing on her mind. But as she messily throws her clothes on and slips out while she thinks you've dozed off, you know you've read this all wrong.

Before your brain can tell your feet to stop moving, you follow Root out into your living room, wrapped in your satin sheets.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Root laughs mirthlessly. “Does it matter? You don't do sleepovers.”

“That's not what I asked,” you say, your patience wearing thin and Root knows it. She knows you well enough to be aware of what you were asking, and you still couldn't read the emotion on her face the same way you couldn't all night.

You can normally assume people’s emotions - the way they get in their own way. The impracticality of them in your line of work. But not being able to read Root bothers you and you hate it.

You pride yourself in being able to wield any weapon, your ability to combat most situations, but when it comes to Root? Well, you have yet to acquire that particular skill. Because when Root has secrets, she likes to keep them.

“Careful Shaw,” Root smirked, her demeanor changing completely. “If I didn't know any better, I’d think you cared.”

You scoff in protest, but say nothing. When Root achieves the reaction she intended, she turns on her heel and walks out without looking back.


	2. blood and bones.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get complicated.

  1. _before you go, (please don't go) turn the big light off._



Weeks later, lips cover yours before the door of your apartment is fully open on its hinges. You're not exactly complaining about the tug on your bottom lip and Root’s hands on your hips, but there's something off about the way she moves. Like watching something through the static of an old television screen.  

Maybe it's the fate that looms over the team. That someday soon Samaritan will swallow New York City whole and there won't be a damn thing any of you could do about it. Or perhaps it's something else entirely, but you get the thought out of your head all the same.

Root is silent, which is an even bigger indication that something is wrong. You don't say anything about it. It's not how the two of you work.

Not that you give a damn. It's just a mere observation as you grab her ass through tight black jeans and suck on her pulse point.

Root rips her shirt off and yours follows soon after. You forget all about what was left unsaid because the only thing you can think to care about is the throbbing below your belt. You shove your tongue down Root’s throat then and guide her to the couch without disconnecting your mouths from one another.

She tops you, her lengthy, slender legs on either side of you and her golden tresses thrown over her thin shoulders while she bites your neck. It makes you want to fuck away whatever happened before she stepped through your door. You plan to as soon as you get what you want.

It's why she came to you in the first place, you suspect.

You pull at Root’s hair as she messily sucks on your pulse point, over your collarbone and down to your chest. She removes your bra in a swift motion and you help her peel off your jeans. It isn't until Root slides your underwear down to the floor and her face is between your legs that you realize how naked you are and how clothed she still is.

“Fuck,” you can't help but moan as Root hits where you need her to with her tongue and you come as her intensity and speed increases.

It's almost embarrassing how fast Root makes you come, but the fact that she knows your weak spots and hits them with precision is something most people in the past weren't able to achieve.

Root smirks slightly as she wipes her mouth, but it never quite reaches her eyes.

That isn't something you're okay with, so you remove her bra, her jeans and her underwear and toss them on the floor next to yours.

You shove a naked Root against the back of the couch, a hand around her slender neck as you kiss her hungrily. You then throw her against the opposite wall and she groans not unpleasantly. You scratch down her back with your fingernails and that elicits even more of a reaction out of Root. You know she's turned on, but you can't help but push her boundaries like she usually does yours.

You're teasing Root until she's practically begging for it, “Shaw, please,” but you move the two of you to the comfort of your bed so you can fuck Root properly.

When Root comes three times in an hour and a half, you're sure she's forgotten about whatever was weighing on her mind. But as she messily throws her clothes on and slips out while she thinks you've dozed off, you know you've read this all wrong.

Before your brain can tell your feet to stop moving, you follow Root out into your living room, wrapped in your satin sheets.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Root laughs mirthlessly. “Does it matter? You don't do sleepovers.”

“That's not what I asked,” you say, your patience wearing thin and Root knows it. She knows you well enough to be aware of what you were asking, and you still couldn't read the emotion on her face the same way you couldn't all night. 

You can normally assume people’s emotions - the way they get in their own way. The impracticality of them in your line of work. But not being able to read Root bothers you and you hate it.

You pride yourself in being able to wield any weapon, your ability to combat most situations, but when it comes to Root? Well, you have yet to acquire that particular skill. Because when Root has secrets, she likes to keep them.

“Careful Shaw,” Root smirked, her demeanour changing completely. “If I didn't know any better, I’d think you cared.”

You scoff in protest, but say nothing. When Root achieves the reaction she intended, she turns on her heel and walks out without looking back. 

iii. _before you go, (please don't go) turn the big light off._

Reese was out working a number, but the team was out of ammunition, and frankly money.

The thought of Samaritan looming over the team found everyone in dire straits. Since Root helped you switch identities (Sameen Grey, part time bartender, part time thief), you'd established some new contacts. You got wind of a new Russian arms dealer in town who packed heavy heat, and thanks to you, he was about to take a big inventory hit.

You knew the ins and outs of the warehouse before you'd even gotten into Bed Stuy, so casing the joint was just reiterating what you already knew. Where suitable cover was, the nooks and escape routes.

Your finger rested comfortably on the trigger of your USP when you spotted four men guarding a large shipping container.

_Two above, two below. Easy._

You were about to put your usual strategy of  shattering kneecaps into motion when you felt a hot breath on your neck. You instinctively grab the unexpected company by the throat and shove them them against the wall. 

“Now this is my kind of foreplay,” Root whispers seductively, her lips curved in that smile that you hate. You resign your weapon into the back of your black jeans and loosen the hand you have circled around the hacker, but let it sit there.

The feeling of it reminds you of more intimate encounters with Root, but you swallow the thought as fast as it came.

“What are you doing here?”

You feel yourself scowling. Mostly because part of you is annoyed that she came to your aid when you can take care of yourself. You’ve had the trust of your fellow Marines, the ISA, and Finch. You never needed anyone other than yourself to complete a job.

You focus on being angry rather than being relieved that Root that hadn't succumbed to the wrath of Samaritan and its acolytes. Any day now a switch will be flipped on and the world as humanity knows it will be altered forever. Even if it looks the same on the surface.

“The Machine warned me that you were in danger,” Root shrugged, her demeanour as casual as if she were talking about the weather. “I couldn't take any chances.”

“What, the Machine thinks I need _your_ help? I’m just fine on my own.”

“She knows you can handle yourself, Sameen,” Root assures, “But she also knows you didn't account for the explosives that the Russians have planted throughout the warehouse.”

Now that was a game changer.

“Why would the Russians want to torch their own place? It doesn't make any sense,” you point out, scratching your head with the back of your gun.

Root shrugs indifferently again. Her blasè attitude was really starting to grate on your nerves. How was she so relaxed about all of this?

“I have no idea,” Root sighed, despite having a direct line to an all seeing supercomputer. “Trying to beat the clock could be fun. She says we have thirteen minutes.”

You knew it was a stupid idea, but you hadn't seen action in a week. Needless to say, your trigger finger was itchy.

“Did you bring your piece?”

Root tilts her head to the side and looks at you almost patronizingly. 

“I always come prepared, sweetie. You know that,” Root flirts, pulling at the lapels of your leather jacket. “Although I _am_ out of bullets.” 

You roll your eyes and throw Root your side arm. “You enter on the west side of the building and grab whatever you can; weapons, cash, anything. I’ll stay behind and cover you.”

Root smirks over her shoulder and says, “Cover me from behind, huh. Sounds kind of hot,” over the comm line.

You regret turning your communications on and prayed Root would keep her mouth shut for the rest of the mission. You take out three armed guards in a matter of minutes - two in the kneecaps, and the other went down quickly as you wrapped your forearm around him in a chokehold. 

“All clear,” you say into the line just as a plethora of gunshots echo around the warehouse. You knew good marksmanship when you heard it. You _were_ a fantastic teacher after all.

“I'm heading for the south side,” Root mentions into the comm line. You watch her silhouette as she climbs the stairs leading to an array of shipping containers. Root shoots her way through the different areas until she finds what she’s looking for, which was now outside of your line of vision. “Shaw, there's a lot more than just weaponry up here.”

You inch closer to the railing in front of you to get a better view. Behind a corner, you’re privy to a thug aiming his weapon at Root as she sifts through the containers. You quickly aim and fire at the man’s chest and satisfyingly watch him go down. 

 _Not on my watch_ , you think to yourself. He was probably dead, but you didn’t care, despite it being against your new set of rules. “Whatever it is, just grab it and go, Root. We don't have time.”

You check the timer you set on your phone. _7 minutes_ until the explosives detonate. You wonder if someone out there is watching your movements. If one of the Russian goons had a detonator. Or if you’d find a timer strapped to a bomb, waiting for it to hit zero. 

It’s times like this that you dislike the vagueness of the Machine. The possibility of having all of your questions answered, but the ASI giving you the bare minimum.

You suppose there’s a parallel you can draw to yourself there, but you choose to ignore it.

“It's kind of hard to do that, Sameen.”  The worry in Root’s voice carries over the line like wind to trees.

She’s worried, and quite frankly sounds _scared_. Fearless, self sacrificing, caring, annoying. Those are words you’d use to describe the brunette. Not this.

When you carefully make your way to Root, checking behind every corner in the process, you understand the tremor in her voice.

Children. Chained to the inside of a shipping container. There were at least ten of them, none without bruises, scars or open wounds. None of them there of their own volition.

The Russians seemed to have moved onto human trafficking as well as arms dealership. For what, it seemed unclear, but you were determined to find out. _Money, most likely_ , you presume. The lengths to which these people will go never seem to surprise you. Well, until now. 

Root on the other hand looked like she was going to be sick. If you felt anything at all, you imagine you would have too.

“Untie them,” you urge the hacker. You were unfeeling, too angry to have a reaction to any of it. “We need to get them out of here. Fast.”

Root nods robotically and does as she’s told. You think of Gen and if one of the kids in that container was her, you'd would wage a personal war on the Russians until every one of them bled. Hell, you want to wage a war on them _now_.

You think of the private school you and Harold put her up in. You wonder now if she’s safe, happy.

More questions float around your brain as you lead each of the kids to safety. You had put a call through to Fusco in the meantime and told him to bring all of the units he could gather up.

Paramedics too, in case things wound up going south along with any possible injuries any of the children sustained while in the hands of the Russians. You just hope he arrives before the bomb hits zero.

_3 minutes._

“Root,” you called into the comm line. “What the hell is taking you so long?”

You found a boy at the bottom of the stairs alone, toying with something in his hands. Some sort of necklace or bracelet.

“Hey kid,” you address the boy softly. He seemed to be in better shape than the others, despite the large gash over his eyes. “Where's Root?” You realize he doesn’t know who you’re talking about. “The tall woman.”

The boy pointed up the stairs and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Can you make it outside on your own?” The boy nodded, his eyes far too empty and expressionless for his age. You wonder if that’s what you looked like to the paramedic who broke the news to you on the night of your father’s death. “You have a big mission to complete for me, big man. Get the others as far away from the building as you can, okay? We’ll be right there.” 

You put a hand on his shoulder and he gives you a small nod as he limps his way out of the copper warehouse doors. You mentally berate Root for going back for the ammunition, but you’ve never actively left anybody behind if you were able to help it. Even if Root _did_ annoy you to no end.

_2 minutes._

“Root,” you shout through the warehouse, your gun never leaving your fingers. “Perky psycho, there’s kind of a bomb about to detonate. Gig’s up, let’s move on out.”

There’s a faint beeping and it grows louder with each step of your boot. You don't know if you’re imagining the bomb ticking down or if it's your subconscious telling you to get out while you still can.

_1 minute._

Maybe you're about to die. Maybe there was never a bomb at all. But you weren't going to leave Root, despite the careless predicament she’s gotten you in. You knew it as soon as you trekked your way back up the steel stairs instead of making your way to all of the children you’d gotten out of the crossfire. 

You find Root pinned down by two armed Russians and a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder. One gunman was holding what looked like a remote detonator - which meant Root got bad intel from the Machine or she knew things would lead up to this point.

Another fucking sacrifice. The kind she was always keen on making for some greater good you didn’t give a shit about.

 _God dammit, Root_ , was the last thing that crossed your mind before everything went black.

//

You wake up aching in a hospital bed with John Reese staring you in the face. Looking at him was like looking into the barrel of a gun. A promise, a death wish. You chalk it up to the CIA imprinting him with stoicism - something you have in common but don’t quite share.

You try to open your mouth and ask the question burning on your tongue, but the not quite silver fox puts a hand up. “She was critical for a while, but she's going to be okay.”

Once you get the answer you were looking for, it doesn't take long for you to drift back into the dark. 

_//_

When your body recovers enough for you to become mobile again, the first place you go is the ICU. Finch informed you that Root would be moved out of intensive care and into her own room in a few hours, but you wanted to see that New York Presbyterian patched her up better than you could have. 

You must've dozed off in the chair beside her bed because you’re startled awake by loud voices.

“Ms. Groves, I assure you that IV is needed-”

A pale faced Root continues struggling with the needle poking out of her arm, a spray of blood now covering the nurse’s white scrubs.

“Don't call me that,” Root says coolly, removing the needle from her vein and attempting to gather enough strength to to get up from the bed.

“Call you what, Ms-”

“Root,” you hear yourself say. Both Root and the nurse turn to look at you, but your eyes are locked with a particular pair of brown ones. “Her name is Root.”

The nurse looks confused but nods, seemingly giving up on trying to make Root lay back down. “Maybe _you'll_ have better luck getting her to stay in bed.”

The nurse bows out and you shake your head, because this is something _you_ would do. The amusement drains from your face when you eye Root’s chart at the edge of her bed. The extent of the hacker’s injuries were telling - she easily could've died had something gone any differently. 

“Are you going to break me out of here or are you just going to memorize the details of my chart?” Root asked, trying to lift herself off of the mattress again without pulling stitches. “I’m fine, Shaw.”

You throw her the harshest glare you could muster up and nudge her back down lightly. “You need to rest, Root.”

Root rolled her eyes. “I'm fine.”

“You've had two surgeries in two days, you need to let your body heal,” you advise. Once a doctor, always a doctor. Even if you haven't been a proper one in years.

Root isn't a stranger to your methods of medicine. A bullet wound here, a knife fight there and she'd show up to your apartment full of innuendos expecting you to stitch her up. You did so every time, because it wasn't without the Machine’s guidance that the hacker would somehow wind up at your doorstep.

You were inclined to help the ASI, not Root.

“I need to get out of here, Sam,” Root mutters with urgency. As if being a sitting duck, waiting for her incisions to heal was worse than ripping out her sutures one by one. “It isn't safe.”

“Is this about the Russians? Because Reese and Fusco can handle them,” you say faux confidently. Reese could handle them. Some days you felt Fusco was a coffee and doughnut away from retirement.

“No,” Root says dejectedly, “Something far worse.”

You're tired of the run around. The half assed information from the Machine that almost got you and Root killed. The passive aggressive non answers from the hacker herself.

“Okay, enough of the bullshit,” you spew, your breaking point finally rearing its head. You wanted answers about the latest impending doom, but you had to ask the question that was on your mind from the moment you woke up hooked up to a plethora of machines. “What were you thinking back there?” 

Root sighed, knowing full well that this conversation would come. It didn’t stop her from looking like she’d rather be underneath the rubble of the detonator’s wrath than talking about this with you. “I was thinking that the team and those kids needed you more than they needed me.”

“For fucks sake, you’re not expendable, Root,” you blurt before you could stop the words from falling out of your mouth. You didn’t care how you sounded at this point. “Why do you risk your life all the time like you are?” 

A glimmer of something flashes across Root’s features, but it’s gone before you can take the time to make anything of it. 

“The entire team risks their lives every day, Shaw,” she counters matter of factly, despite the bags under her eyes. Despite the lack of fight in her body.

“We save lives. We don’t go back into buildings that are about to explode for weapons and dirty money.”

 _“We_ don’t do anything,” Root seethes, and she winces in pain as she seemingly tugs on her stitches. “It’s my life, and I don’t remember giving you a say in it.”

This time, it’s you who walks away.

//

“Did you know?” You half ask, half demand as you storm into the subway like a hurricane at the end of July.

Finch wobbles up from his work station, the surprise at your presence obvious on his face. Maybe he thought you would be out of commission for a while. It was his downfall, you thought, the way he always underestimated you. It pissed you off, but you suspect there’s more to it than your performance. 

“I didn't expect you would have approached the situation as you did, Ms. Shaw. If I had told you what was really transpiring, I-” He looked down at his feet momentarily, trying to get his bearings. “The young boy you saved, Ezekiel? His number came up. But I promise you, I hadn’t the slightest indication that he was a part of the Russians’ human trafficking ring,” Finch amended quickly, the words spilling out of his mouth like a leaky faucet. “Or that you and Ms. Groves would get hurt.” 

“Root,” you mumble through clenched teeth. “Her name is Root.”

“ _Root-“_

“She almost died, Harold,” you say through clenched teeth. The words ricochet off the subway walls, piercing through your skin and your limbs. The weight of it pulling you under the current. “She almost died, and that's on you.”

You turn away without turning back at Finch’s whispered, “I know.” 

You grab one of the the guns in the caged locker and begin cleaning it. The feel of the cool metal steadies your breaths, but your mind keeps racing a mile a minute. All of the things that have gone on in the past few weeks run through your mind as a winded marathoner runs laps. 

When you’re done cleaning your compact, you load it full of fresh bullets. “So what are we going to do about this?”

Harold takes a seat next to you on one of the hard seats of the subway car. “Mr. Reese is already working on it.”

You cock your gun and tuck an earpiece in your ear. “Hope he’s ready for some solid backup.”

Finch knew better than to protest as you exit the subway on a mission, leaving him to his devices.

//

Two days after you get out of the hospital, there’s a knock at your door. You were working on any and all leads with Reese for the last 48 hours and he insisted you take some time to yourself. Instead of sleeping though, you found yourself in front of the TV in your apartment at 3am, halfway through a six pack of Stella.

Another set of knocks come. You look through the peephole and aren’t surprised in the slightest by the person on the other side of it.

“You should be resting,” you scold Root as she crosses threshold into your apartment. She’s moving rather well for someone who’s just had multiple surgeries, but the doctor in you knows she must be in pain from all of that trauma.

“I will, I promise. I just,” Root shifts her eyes from her feet to your line of vision. Searching for what, you don’t know, so you wait. “I needed to apologize.”

Root’s admission takes you aback a bit, but you don’t let it show. You assumed that _you_ were the one who fucked up by asking too much. The insistence for something that Root wasn’t ready to admit.

“You don’t need to apologize, Root,” you say softly, in a voice that doesn’t sound like yours. Free of annoyance, full of understanding. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Maybe. But I’ve been taking a lot of my problems out on you and it isn’t fair,” Root said, easing herself into the couch. She didn’t seem like she was able stand for much longer. “At this point, I owe you an explanation for my behaviour.”

You nod, wondering when Root had become so difficult to figure out. When things had become so complicated between the two of you.

“Samaritan,” Root sighs. “No matter what I do, who we save, Decima is bringing Samaritan online. In fact, they’ve already started. A beta of sorts.”

It all seemed to make sense now. Why Root was being spread so thin. The threat of Samaritan was real, and it was only a matter of time before the evil supercomputer came online. And Root always listened to her all seeing god, even if you didn’t see the intelligence in that way. Despite your working for it for quite some time in the ISA.

Damage control, and Harold’s machine was using Her Analog Interface to humanity’s advantage.

“Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on, Root?” you find yourself asking, wondering when you started to give a shit about any of this. “I could’ve helped take some of the burden off of you.”

“Shaw it’s- we don’t do that,” Root amended, sincerity on her face. It’s rare that you’ve seen her like this, telling the truth without a flirty comment at the ready. Then again, Root’s been through the ringer lately. “I know your limitations.”

You can’t help but feel a sting at her words. “Limitations,” you repeat back to her.

“Yes, ones that I respect.”

“Well,” you found yourself walking over to Root. “If what you said is true, that Samaritan is online, we don’t have much time left.”

You feel the tensity in the room dissipate as soon as the implication leaves your lips. 

“Hm,” Root smirks slightly, knowing immediately what you were insinuating. “We may as well make the best of it then.”

Root attempts to pull your tank top over your head, but winces in pain. She most likely tugged at her stitches, so the sex can wait. For now.

“Let me take a look at those,” you tell her, already lifting up her shirt to observe the wound.

“I love it when you play doctor.”


	3. little white lies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get even more complicated and Gen happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I wanted to get this chapter out before I have a shit ton of things to do in school so don't mind my spelling/grammatical errors. Hope you enjoy the angst.

Sameen Grey was back at work at the pub after a few weeks of recovery. The visible scars on your temple and the limp that grew worse when you switched from one end of the bar to the other were apparent, but nothing a little R&R wouldn't fix.

Not that Sameen Shaw found time for that either.

It was a Monday night, which meant Eddie’s was quite dead. There were a few exceptions, every bar had its regulars, but for the most part the quaint pub at the tail end of Union Square was empty.

You busied yourself wiping down tables with a damp cloth and refilling dirty shot glasses with clean ones, but that got old after a while. You were bored, and this cover job wasn’t helping clear your head.

You and Reese had been attempting to track down leads on the Russians, but you kept hitting dead end after dead end. Sure, the children were returned to their families thanks to Fusco and other members of the NYPD, but none of them knew enough to put the guilty Bratva members behind bars.

There was something suspicious about how everything went down at the warehouse. You kept running over the details of and over it, but would keep coming up empty. It frustrated you to no end and that wasn’t acceptable.

How everything happened didn’t sit right with you in the slightest. The fact that the numbers were dwindling down didn’t help either, even if Harold thought it was better this way. Something about,“, “doing the day jobs you were assigned will help solidify your identities”.”

You weren’t keen on listening to him drone on anyway.

You check your phone in between asking the few customers if they needed another round and every time you glanced down at the screen, there’d be no messages. Even your earpiece had been pure radio silence.

Nothing from Root either, but that didn’t exactly surprise you; she had always been inconsistent with her visits anyway.

 _Not that I care_.

Normally your head doesn’t spin like this - it’s a new development, but why things have surfaced in this way for you _,_ you’re unsure. You always deemed human emotion useless but now you seemed to have developed _something_ for the hacker. Whatever that particular musing meant.

Robot or not, there’s been a change within you, even if the feelings aren’t all encompassing like everyone makes them out to be.

For you, they’re a glimmer, a tree that’s fallen in a forest that no one was around to hear. A bullet that has cut through flesh clean, in and out. No fuss, but you did find it to be rather annoying. Quite like Root herself.

You’re broken out of your reverie when a man in a long black overcoat pushes his way through the doors of the pub. He runs a tattooed hand into his slicked back hair and cased the joint with a confidence you don’t like. Something on his neck catches your eye, a tattoo of an eight point star peeks out of his coat. It told you everything you needed to know about what kind of night this was going to be.

He was Russian Bratva and he had the permanent stamp to prove it.

The two burly men on either side of him are enough for you to reach for the .45 under the counter, but you don’t show your hand just yet. That’s not how you play.

The man in the overcoat mutters a hushed “ _stand down for now”_ in Russian before approaching the bar. The little of the language that you picked up in the ISA wound up becoming increasingly more handy than you thought, especially in situations like this.

You may have doubted the people behind your training, but you’d never doubt the skill set you picked up as a result.

“I’ll take a Scotch neat. Best you’ve got,” the man says to you in a thick, raspy voice. It has a quality that unsettles you as you pour his drink and slide it across the bar. Although your instincts told you a drink wasn’t all this man was here for.

You take a pricey bottle off the top shelf and pour it into a glass. Your eyes don’t leave the trio as he downs the alcohol.

A few moments pass and you begin to grow impatient. You check your phone again and expect to hear a voice in your ear, the possibility of your number popping up for the second time since knowing of the Machine’s existence. But nothing ever came.

Instead, the hands of the clock on the wall grew louder in your eardrums as each moment passed. Or maybe the unsettledness you felt was making you hyper aware of each tick.

When the silence other than the whisper of the few bar patrons got to be too thick, you slammed a wild fist down onto the rugged bar.

“Are you going to spit it out or am I going to have to beat information out of Moe and Larry here?”

The man laughs mirthlessly before downing his Scotch and placing the glass onto the wooden surface in front of him. “Guess that makes me Curly, doesn’t it?”

His attempt at humour makes you want to unload a couple bullets into his kneecaps, but you refrain. The few regulars that occupy the bar don’t seem to notice what’s going on, which would change if you started firing away.

Your cover would be blown instantaneously and Samaritan operatives would pour into Eddie’s faster than you serve cocktails. Which is pretty damn quick, if you do say so yourself. The job was good for something, you suppose.

“It’ll make you a sucker with two bullets in your kneecaps if you don’t get talking,” you snarl, your patience wearing thin. It’s then that you notice the quality of this man’s laugh. There’s a familiarity to it and your blood begins to boil even more. “All right. Who are you and what business do you have in this pub?”

Your gun lays cold in between your fingertips as you point it at the Russian and it feels _good._ You haven’t threatened a man in a while and you’re a bit overdue.

“You can relax little girl. You won’t be needing that,” the man grins coolly, oozing with overconfidence. You hate the smirk he’s wearing. It’s not playful, like someone else you know. It’s an unsettling kind of psychotic, with every wrinkle in his face turned upward.

If you were anyone else, you’d be afraid of the Russian. But frankly, you want to wipe the look off of his face with your left hook. “I’m just here for a chat,” he continues.

Somehow, you find that difficult to believe. “If that’s all you’re here for, why bring dumb and dumber?”

One of the men dart forward at your comment, but their boss puts a hand up. The henchman stops in his tracks.

“A contingency. In case you were uncooperative.” You’re confused at what he could want from you, but keep your game face on. Before you can question him further, he says, “You visit Genrika quite often. Twice a month, according to the ridiculously expensive private school your boss has her holed up in.”

You see red instantaneously.

Before you know it, you’re pulling the man in by the lapels of his shirt and smashing his head against the bar. Your gun rests comfortably between his eyes like you had initially wanted to. But instead of twisting his features in fear, Vladislav Zhirova chuckles and two guns are pointed at _your_ head.

“If you touch Gen I swear to god,” you threaten, despite being outgunned. It’s never stopped you before, so there wasn’t a point in amending your rules now.

“God is online, Agent Shaw.” The usage of your real name doesn’t phase you, instead you push the gun further into Vladislav’s temple. You hope the residue leaves a mark that will take ages to wash off. “And there’s nothing you or your team of outlaws can do about it.”

You aren’t surprised to find Gen’s father working for Samaritan. Harold knew he was a vile man, it’s probably why he kept Vladislav’s identity a secret and Gen as far away from him as possible. It would be so easy to put a bullet between him and his goons’ eyes.

“You know, at first I was simply wondering who kept stealing from my people. But I’m impressed by your work as _all_ of your identities. You’ve given me a run for my money, Shaw. You should consider joining my team.”

You scoff at his offer. “You mean join Samaritan? Why would I do something as asinine as that?”

“Just think about it Sameen. You’re a woman of great skill. An asset.” The man looks over at the camera in the far corner of Eddie’s and smirks for probably the tenth time since he walked in. “We could’ve taken you in by force, but we decided to leave the option up to you,” Vladislav threw over his shoulder before putting a couple of twenty dollar bills on the bar.

“I’m touched,” you spit dryly, returning to your duties behind the bar. Your gun warming up in between your fingertips.

“Oh and Agent Shaw? Stay the hell away from Genrika.”

//

“Ms. Shaw, it appears your cover has been blown,” Harold says over the comm line mere minutes after you flee Eddie’s.

Not without grabbing a bottle of whiskey first though. Top shelf at a five finger discount was something you couldn’t pass up. For this particular conversation, you were going to need it.

“Yeah, no kidding, Finch. Were you going to tell us that Gen’s father works for Samaritan? Or were you going to keep it to yourself, as per usual?”

14th Street was incredibly busy, and was the perfect place to hide: in plain sight. In the very real chance that Samaritan operatives came looking for you, at least you’d be well blended into a crowd of tourists and suits.

Where you were going though, you weren’t entirely sure. You always thought of yourself as a wanderer anyway. A nomad, finding a purpose for a little while, then packing your metaphorical bags (because really, you only carry your arsenal and a toothbrush) and move on.

It was only recently that you’d found yourself staying in one place. You can’t imagine leaving your team now, especially with Samaritan hot on your tails.

And Root, well. Things with her were something else entirely. A loose end that you weren’t sure needed tying.

“I was hoping I didn’t have to resort to that,” he says quietly over the line. You hear him typing away at his desktop, probably looking over information he’s never going to inform you about.

“I’m tired of being kept in the dark, Finch. I’m not Fusco. You can’t keep pulling this shit,” you tell him indignantly over the line.

Finch is reticent and for a moment, you think he’s cut off the line.

“Vladislav Zhirova. Born December 15th, 1972 in Moscow, Russia, head of the Russian Bratva,” he breathes evenly over the comm line. ”I assigned Ms. Zhirova a new identity upon her admittance to Iona Prep. Although it seems Vladislav’s involvement with Samaritan has allowed him access to not only her location but her private records as well.” You hear the older man press the keys again, vigorously over the line. “Ms. Shaw, it seems time is of the essence here. Mr. Zhirova has a meeting with the Headmaster of Iona Prep in two days.”

Vladislav couldn’t get a hold of Gen. She’d never have a normal life with her father in her crosshairs.

That was not an option you were going to settle for.

“I can’t let him get his hands on Gen,” you say determinedly. A dark town car pulls up next to you, stopping to in your tracks.

“We won’t,” Reese huffs, rolling down the window of the passenger side of the car. “Get in.”

//

_before you go (please don't go), turn the big light off._

The walls of Iona Preparatory School were a grim shade of maroon and white. The pristinely painted walls of the school looked like they had been redone recently, but the atmosphere of the place was quite off putting. The smell of burnt plastic was getting to you and you hated it.

Maybe it was the posters of encouragement everywhere or the puritanical layout of the building, but _something_ didn’t sit right with you at the institution.

If Gen was anything like you, she probably felt like a prisoner.

Reese got busy with a number, so he called in a favour and caught a ride with Leon. Despite the initial lack of company, you aren’t surprised to find Root already sitting in with the headmaster of the school when you arrive. You’re even less surprised to find her name on the list of people who had visiting privileges. The Machine’s doing, you presume. Harold only allowed you on the visitation list because Gen had taken a liking to you, nothing more. The double standard was becoming quite blatant.

But Root was in a grey pantsuit and black thick rimmed glasses, her golden wavy hair framing them. She looked hot and you decided you hated her.

Through the glass of the office window, you watch Root make the taller woman laugh.

“I used to play rugby at Columbia,” you heard Ada Roach say. Of course Root got the headmaster talking personal shit. She was good at cracking code of all types, you had to admit. A little _too_ good.

“And you still maintained a 4.0 in Biochemistry? That’s incredible,” the hacker said, resting a hand on Ada’s arm.

“A 3.9 actually,” the headmaster said bashfully, shifting some paperwork from one side of her desk to the other. “We should talk more over drinks sometime. And about your daughter’s grades - she’s wise beyond her years, despite being...quite the handful.”

_Daughter?_

“I agree,” Root smirks and gets up from the wobbly office chair. You had to admit though, the office decor was nicer than the rest of the building.

 _So that’s where the budget went,_ you scoff internally.

Root scribbles something onto a piece of paper and hands it to Ada before walking out. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Petrov,” the headmaster says to Root. Another identity the Machine’s assigned to her, you suspect.

“Oh, the pleasure was all mine,” Root winks and heads out the door towards where you’re now seated. You didn’t want the hacker to think you were listening in, so you play it nonchalant. Sorted.

She isn’t surprised to see you though, the benefits of having an ASI at her disposal.

“The Russians are working with Samaritan,” Root whispers in your ear. The grit in her voice sends a shiver down your spine that lands in your chest. You swallow the sensation instead of drowning in it.

“You got that tidbit of info from Gen’s overzealous headmaster?”

“No,” Root says with slight indignance and pushes a wavy strand of hair behind her ear. You find yourself wanting to push her up against the far wall of the hallway and tug on it. “I just thought you’d want to know.”

“How about instead of telling me something I already know, you tell me what you’re doing here, Root.” Your own voice comes through annoyed and you’re unsure why. Maybe it’s just your constant state of mind, questions floating around. Insufficient answers. The unexpected at every turn.

You’re tired of being lied to. Or maybe it’s just your general feeling towards Root that were getting the better of you.

“I could ask you the same thing, sweetie,” Root grins, saccharine dripping from both corners of her lips.

“You’re the one flirting with Gen’s principal,” you let slip out. You roll your eyes at yourself because you feel more than see a wider smirk forming over Root’s features.

“Well, _someone_ is jealous of my flirting tactics.”

  
Before Root could tease you any further, a girl with bushy hair and slacks that were too big for her tiny frame comes up to the both of you and sighs heavily.

“Thank goodness you’re here. The sign out sheet is with the guard up front,” Gen interrupted, pulling on the straps of her school bag. “I hate it here. It’s like jail.”

“Prison is less abhorrent than this place,” Root countered offhandedly, and you were inclined to agree. “Don’t worry, we’re busting you out of here, kiddo.”

“You were in prison?” Gen asked Root, and you have to admit you were curious about her supposed incarceration yourself. Considering this was the first you’ve heard of it, Root must’ve been keeping it from you for a good reason.

Now that you think about it, there’s probably a lot you don’t know about Root. And for the first time you can remember, you actually want to hear the details of another person’s life. Although, in your defense, Root has probably lived a rather interesting one.

“Wrongfully imprisoned,” Root amended willfully. You highly doubted that was the case, and it seemed Gen didn’t quite believe the hacker either.

“We can finish this conversation in the car,” you say, and you wonder when things started to become so domesticated.

//

After two hours of Gen and Root fighting over the radio, your head starts spinning. You bring them both to a rundown diner a few blocks from your apartment (just to be safe) because if they have food in their mouths, at least you won’t have to listen to them speak anymore.

You were also famished and ordered a stack of blueberry pancakes glazed with a pound of maple syrup.

Three short stacks later and whatever the hell Root and Gen got, you carefully make your way back to your place.

“Am I staying here for the weekend?” Gen asked, placing her bag next to the couch and plopping down on it. “I haven’t been over in months.”

You look to Root in hopes that she’ll know what to say to Gen. She buys you some time instead. “Just give us a sec, okay sweetie?”

Root grabs you by the arm and pulls you into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. The two of you didn’t need the eleven year old hearing your conversation.

“Okay, so we obviously aren’t telling Gen that her father plans to whisk her away,” Root says, slipping her suit jacket off and placing it on your bed. The tank top she’s wearing shows her muscles and you find it difficult to concentrate on what she’s saying. Unfortunately for you, she notices. “Like what you see?”

You grunt in response and try not to look back at Root’s exposed skin. Or her lips after she’s taken a step towards you and into your personal space.

It’s been so long that you can’t remember what she tastes like, and you’d be lying to yourself if you’d said you didn’t want a reminder.

You resist though, and Root looks disappointed. “We won’t tell her, but Gen’s a smart kid. She’s going to get suspicious.”

“I’ll let Harold take care of that one,” Root notes mischievously. “You realize we’re going to have to homeschool her, right?”

You scoff and take a sip from a bottle of Jack you pull from your dresser. It was a long day and you were due for a drink. Or five. “Yeah, sure. Why don’t you get your new friend Headmaster Roach to help you with that?”

Root shakes her head frustratedly. “What is with you today?”

You take another swig from the bottle. “Nothing,” you whisper, finding yourself drawn to the whiskey. Anything to feel differently when Root is in the vicinity. That weight sitting on your chest gone, a ton of bricks coming down on a collapsed building.

Root sighs heavily in defeat. “After everything we’ve been through together, I thought we were going to be honest with each other.”

You hate that she’s right. That a few months ago, you were on the other end of this conversation. And now here you were, hiding things from Root and even worse, from yourself.

But you couldn’t do this right now. Your brain was an absolute mess and all you should be focusing on is keeping Gen safe. That and putting Samaritan and all of its acolytes in the ground.

“You disappear for weeks at a time doing the Machine’s bidding. I don’t hear from you for a month and you want to talk about honesty?”

“Sameen-”

“You should go,” you demand in a small voice that’s unlike your own.

She’s fuming. You know this because there’s a dark glint in her eyes and you’re just standing there about to catch fire. If she stays any longer, you know you’ll give into it. You hate it. You want to hate her for making you feel this weak.

  
It’d be so much easier to get Root out of your sight even though it’s the last thing you want. But she _does_ go, and she takes Gen with her, leaving you alone in your empty apartment.


	4. me, liquor and god.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finds clarity at the bottom of a bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates, school has been kicking my ass. Hopefully this small chapter is enough to kick this story back into gear.

  _vi. before you go (please don't go), turn the big light off._

You sit in your desolate apartment for hours, flipping through the channels. Not that any film or television show could get your mind off of the haphazard words that left your lips. Or Root disappearing with Gen immediately after.

You nurse a bottle of Captain Morgan that you had in the freezer in case of emergency, but even the burn of the alcohol down your throat wasn’t taking the edge off this time.

Despite you staying put, you were running and you knew it.

Because the second Root enters a room, your senses are no longer in your control.  All you’ve ever known to be true about yourself gets thrown out the window and you have no idea what to do with it.

Your one night or three has turned into months of reckless abandon full of pleasure and gunfights and artificial intelligences. Frankly, you had no idea if either of you were going to make it out of this alive. You always figured you’d die somewhere along the line, in battle somewhere. Dying for your country without any loose ends to concern yourself with.

Sure, you had Cole and you considered him a friend, but he knew what he was to you.

Things seemed so much simpler when you worked for the government. Everything was black and white with no room for any of the grey you currently found yourself nestled up in. There was none of the confusion you’re feeling now, despite how fucked up Control and Wilson’s views on morality were when you worked for them. 

You sigh and sit up on the couch, the television now causing a splitting headache behind your eyes. The rum is starting to get to you, so you walk to the window on the far side of your living room and stare down at the busy Manhattan street below.

You look at passersby and mull over the fact that most of them on the tiny strip of asphalt can probably feel things that you can’t.

Love. Affection. Happiness.

It’s not that you envy them, because most human emotion comes at the wrong times - at least that’s what you’ve gathered over the years. Emotion clouded all logic. It’s something you never had to worry about, something that made you an asset. But now you wonder if you’ve underestimated the presence of an anomaly. A flaw in your system.  

If you’re honest with yourself, you never anticipated a force as powerful as Root ever entering your orbit.

Before your brain can decide against it, your fingers type drunken thoughts onto a phone screen. Your arms grab your jacket and feet move you out of your apartment and out to a hole in the wall dive bar three blocks over from your place.

“You do realize it’s 1am right,” Fusco grunts in between sips of his club soda. He pats down the beaten up stool next to him. Maybe it’s just the booze, but you’re almost proud of him for being able to remain sober at a bar. “You had me worried, so I ordered you a double.”

You smirk and take the seat as the bartender places the cocktail in front of you. She’s got a cut jawline and is smiling at you with perfect teeth and plump lips.

It falls short though. It’s anticlimactic, nothing out of the ordinary for you.

Or maybe your reaction to this sort of thing has changed and you’re only noticing it through your drunk goggles. 

_Time to drink more._

“Do you ever feel different, Lionel?” you slur apathetically. The detective looks at you like he has indigestion, so you elaborate further as you slide the gin down your throat. “Like you’ve always known where the ground is, but suddenly your feet can’t find their way onto the cement anymore?”

You don’t appreciate Fusco’s laughter, so you give him the biggest glare you can muster (or at least you think you do, you can’t really tell in your state). You find that you don’t actually hate him for it though. You don’t entirely hate his company either.

There is a reason you texted him after all. You picture him squinting at his phone with his glasses on and it humours you slightly in your head. They’re way too small for his round face, you think.

“All the time,” Fusco replies with sincerity. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, kid. But if I’m honest, I didn’t have my head on straight until I met glasses and John.” 

You let his words mull over for a little bit. You’re not sure if what Lionel is saying aligns with what you’re trying to emulate, but he’s trying. You’ll give him that.

Your head is spinning so you continue spilling out your thought process into words anyway. “It’s not that. I was fine before I met her, you know? I don’t know why things have to change.”

Fusco nearly spits out his soda, but nods instead in realization. “It’s okay to want someone to stick around, y’know. It doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Doesn’t it though?” You swirl your straw around in your glass, creating a tiny hurricane. It’s mildly comforting from where you’re sitting. “People always expect things from you. Usually things I can’t give back.”

“That’s the thing,” Fusco says, turning toward you in his seat. “The people who matter, the ones who care about you the most don’t give a shit about getting anything in return.” 

Lionel is more observant than you give him credit for. You shouldn’t be surprised, really. He is a detective for a reason. And an asset to the team. A friend, or the closest thing to it.

“Thanks, Lionel.” 

“Anytime,” he smiles, his laugh lines more abundant than usual. “As much as I’m sure you enjoy my company, I think you should be telling all this to coco puffs.” You give him a glare and he throws his hands up in faux resignation. “Not saying it’s my business. Just a thought.”

He puts a couple of bills down on the bar and you’re left with a lighter feeling in your chest.

//

The door of room 706 is pulled open before you pluck up the courage to knock on it. 

“It’s about time,” Gen says, her hand resting comfortably on her hip. “Root’s been moping around for days.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “She- what?”

Gen just rolls her eyes and gestures for you to enter the room. “You two are hopeless.”

Ain’t that the truth, you think. The hotel room is decent enough. The decor is minimalist, white walls and beige furniture with a decent view of the busy Williamsburg street below.

“Where is Root?”

“She said she had an errand to run,” Gen said, plopping herself onto the couch and clicking on the television.

You try your best to not let your anger show. “Root left you by yourself?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much a grown up,” Gen says, flipping through the channels with one hand and stuffing popcorn in her mouth with the other. Root may have left her alone, but at least Gen wasn’t hungry. 

You think back to a different time when the hacker tossed a breakfast bar at you, claiming you needed to eat.

“You’re a kid,” you spit out. “And with your particular hobbies, you need adult supervision at all times.”

Gen scoffs and finally settles on a channel. You have to admit the kid has good taste in sci-fi at least. “Please. You two idiots can’t even figure out that you love each other and _I_ need supervision. Right.”

You’re left speechless on the couch. 

//

A few episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and an order of room service later, you hear a key push into a lock.

Root had a large gash under her eye and her jacket sleeve was sliced in half, caked with her own blood. The hacker’s hair was disheveled and she looked like she could hardly stand. You get up from the couch quickly and let Root shift her weight onto you.

“Root, what happened?” Gen ran over to the taller woman and wrapped her up in what looked like s painful hug.

 “Gen, go to your room,” you urged, not taking no for an answer. You should’ve known better than to think Gen wouldn’t try to stay.

“But-”

“Gen, this isn’t up for discussion,” you sneer, Root being your priority at the minute.

The eleven year old slouched her posture and made her way to her room, slamming the door in the process.

“Sounds like you two are getting along,” Root comments through her pain. You guide her into the spot you were taking up just moments ago and help peel her leather jacket off.

You assess Root’s wounds quickly and deduce that she has a relatively deep stab wound and bruises on her ribs. It isn’t serious, but you grab some medical supplies from the first aid kit in the bathroom and begin working.

“Root, what the hell were you thinking,” you scold as you wipe blood onto some gauze pads. You hold the material there to stop the flow of red liquid the best you can. “I thought we talked about these missions the Machine sends you on. And leaving Gen here alone-”

“Shaw, it isn’t like that,” Root argues, wincing as you pour some peroxide onto her wounds. You grab the suture kit out of the box and prep them for use. “I went to protect Gen. Samaritan is using the Russian Bratva to shape their children into future operatives. In exchange, Decima and their morally void ASI overlooks all of the illegal things the Bratva do.”

You shake your head as you suture, a calm coming over you despite the daunting information coming out of Root’s mouth.

You always felt at ease when helping people. Or shooting them. It was a fine line that you didn’t bother assessing on a regular basis.

“Samaritan’s raising a child army. Why am I not surprised?” Deep down you knew Samaritan was trouble, but this was a whole new level of fucked up you couldn’t wrap your head around. “That’s why Vladislav wants Gen all of a sudden. He wants to turn her into a Samaritan operative.”

“You and I both know you’d rather die than let that happen,” Root smirked.

“You’ve got that right. So what does She think we should do?”

Instead of a proper answer, you get a devilish smirk in return.


	5. tomorrow's another day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen's father finally gets what's coming to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me @wolfgangshaw on Twitter! As usual, feedback is welcome. There's one chapter of this story left, thanks to those who have stuck around this long.

_ vii. before you go  _

“Root, where the hell are we going?” Your question comes out breathy and scowlful as a result of trying to keep up with the long legged hacker. She speed walks when she’s on a mission, you’ve learned, but this pace was a new kind of determination you weren’t accustomed to. “We’ve been walking for miles.”

Root doesn’t give you an answer, so you huff instead as you track behind her. The road you were walking along suddenly turns into a field with tall grass and thick bushes, an open space that seemed to go on forever. 

You notice the stars in the sky looking especially luminous tonight and you suddenly forget what you’re doing. Where you’re going. 

You only know who you’re with. 

There are no Russians, no Samaritan operatives tailing you to turn over your shoulder and unload some bullets into. Just you and Root.

Root slows down and takes a seat in no particular patch of grass. She doesn’t pat down the spot next to her, but you take it nonetheless and plop yourself beside her. 

The hacker stares off into the distance and you wonder if she’s looking at the stars the same way you were moments ago. The cold air cuts through your cheeks like a rusted blade, but you find you don’t mind it as much as you used to. 

You’d been to New York before working for Finch and the Machine, but in the months of first moving there, the cold had gotten to you. Frozen you to the core, which made it all the more difficult to wield a weapon. But now you find it more of a comfort than a nuisance. Even though you weren’t able to feel much, at least the mid winter chill reminded you that you were in fact, alive.

_ For now, at least. _

You didn’t know how many more moments you’d get like this. Where you could enjoy the silence instead of sounds of war and loss.

“It all seems so trivial, doesn’t it?” Root speaks in a whisper so quiet you almost don’t hear the words fall from her lips. “Samaritan. The Machine. Saving humanity from themselves. It all feels so unimportant when you think about the vast universe at play.”

You nod in understanding and look over at Root. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as her lips perking up in a smile as she stares out at the constellations. A humble reminder that you were mere pawns, pale blue dots in a significantly larger scope.

You don’t remember inching closer to Root as she spoke existentially. When you look back at her, your faces are inches apart. Her breath hitches slightly at the confined space which creates a warmth inside of you. Before you realize what the muscles in your body are doing, your hand is cupping the back of Root’s neck and crashing your lips between her bottom one.

You have an urge to climb on top of her (it was an empty field, no one was around), but you have an inkling that this wasn’t the type of moment that called for that type of intimacy. The way you were kissing Root and the way she was kissing you back felt different. Like a breath of fresh air.

A reminder of what was at stake and what will most likely be lost in the near future.

 

//

 

A half hour later, you’re both back on the warpath. There were imminent threats in needing of a bag and tag. You may be a naturally skilled killer, but bad guys getting what they deserve in whatever form it takes is a step toward justice in your books. Especially when this specific threat endangers a young girl that you happen to feel an attachment to.

When you first met Gen, her quick wit and refusal to let things go reminded you a lot of yourself, which made you feel a sense of duty when it came to her. If anything happened to her or to Root...well. You don’t want to think about that right now.

You’re unfazed when you put a bullet in each leg of the guards blocking the entryway of Vatrab Enterprise, an obvious shell corporation. You kick their walkie talkies away in order to keep the element of surprise alive while Root reads commands off from the Machine into your comm line.

You doubt it will be long before you are discovered in the large fortress, since the Bratva had Samaritan on their side. But the more soldiers down, the less you and Root would be hindered when you cut off the dragon’s head. Or at the very least, drag him away in handcuffs.

You move swiftly up the staircase while Root took over the control centre in the lobby. You were waiting for her to be your eyes and ears, reminding you of Cole and your time in the ISA. But you couldn’t look back to that now. There was only room to think about tonight.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes on you Shaw,” Root informs you. “Just the way I like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Now’s not the time for distasteful flirtation, Root,” you scold. You know by now that it’s like telling a cat not to scratch your new leather couch: pointless. Although if you’re being honest with yourself, you kind of missed the playful banter between the two of you. Better this than either of you hurting the other (in the not fun way).

“It’s never a bad time, Shaw,” you hear the hacker smirk over the line in between keyboard hits. “The fourth floor is clear. I’ve rigged the elevator to take you up to the twelfth without interference. You can get to the penthouse through the stairs adjacent to suite 1105.”

You keep your gun close and make your way to the elevator quickly. “One of these days, you’re going to have to teach me some of this hacking stuff.”

“If you’re lucky.” You push the button for the twelfth floor and hear the sounds of a gunfight in your earpiece.

“Root?” The hacker’s rugged breath over the line let’s you know that she’s alive at the very least. “Are you hit?”

“Just a graze,” she mutters through discomfort. “I’m fine, Shaw.”

Root has the tendency to downplay her injuries, so you hope for both your sakes that she’s telling the truth this time.

The elevator rolls to a stop and what awaits for you is your own set of gunfire. You duck behind the wall of the elevator and shoot a couple of rounds out. A bullet hits the desired target and you take the opportunity to grab cover behind a metal end table, which you flip over ever so gracefully.

“We knew you’d come for him, Agent Shaw,” a tall, muscular Bratva with a thick accent yells from the other side of a couch full of bullet holes across the room. “I’m surprised you got this far.”

“You’re not walking out of here without a bullet, Kaidanovsky,” you yell, before rolling for closer cover behind a support beam. You fire a few more rounds, taking down one of the few armed men. 

“There are two more coming your way, Shaw,” Root tells you alarmingly. “Your ten and three o’clock.”

You get one of the Bratva in the shoulder, only to run out of bullets. Before he can fire his gun, you wrestle it out of his hands and knee him in the groin. Hard. 

You pick up his weapon from the floor and pull his body in front of you like a shield while getting back to the support beam. More men from across the room fire, and hit the Russian you’re holding. You drop him to the floor when you no longer have use for him.

You shoot your USP Compact a few times before you hear the sound of the elevator ring. Emerging from it is a man in a suit and an overcoat with salt and pepper hair. Everything goes silent the remaining Bratvas’ eyes shoot to him.

“Must’ve lost my invitation to the party in the mail,” John Reese says with a semi automatic pistol in his hand. He takes out the remaining three men across the room (with a little help from you) with ease and walks a few steps toward you.

“What are you doing here, John?” you ask incredulously. You’re frustrated that Reese thought you couldn’t handle this this task, taking out Vladislav on your own. You try to keep your anger with him at bay, but it doesn’t work.

“You think you can take down these Bratva thugs by yourself, Shaw?” Reese’s voice is low and glutural as usual, but there isn’t any malice in his voice. From your years of experience reading people, you can tell he was worried about the mission being compromised. But you do wonder if you hear a bit of worry in his voice for you specifically.

“I was doing just fine before you showed up,” you sneer, pocketing your weapon and shifting your weight onto one foot. 

The door to the stairwell adjacent to you opens and closes quickly. A chubby man waddles over to you and Reese, completely out of breath.

“You could’ve told me there was an elevator, you know,” Fusco huffs.  _ Great, more useless backup, _ you think to yourself.

“I see the cavalry has arrived,” you scoff. “Let me guess, Finch is downstairs assisting Root.” Reese nods nonchalantly in confirmation. “We were handling things just fine.”

“We heard you were in trouble,” Fusco responded gently. “Glasses and tall, dark and scary here thought you could use the back up.”

You pull Reese to the side so Lionel can’t hear. “Did our numbers come up?”

Reese sighs. It looks like he was hesitant to give you this information. “No. Just yours.”

You nod and let that sink in. If your number came up, why didn’t the Machine tell Root?

“Two more armed Bratva are coming your way, Ms. Shaw,” Finch says through the line. You imagine him hovering over surveillance in the lobby and roll your eyes. But ultimately, you decide that two sets of eyes are better than one. 

And at least Root knew how to wield the weapons you gave her in case the Bratva got wind of what you were doing in the building.

You, Fusco and Reese fire multiple bullets at the men before they could even step foot inside the hallway. They plop onto the floor, groaning in pain in unison.

“Let’s head to the penthouse, boys.”

 

//

 

You hold your Compact close as you make your way to the penthouse suite. The Bratva were notified of your presence a few minutes ago when you tripped a silent alarm going from floor to floor. Finch tried to stop the three of you, but discovered the trip too late.

  
Consequently, the Bratva knocked out the security cameras. You, Reese and Fusco were going in blind. You’re sure that there was a time before surveillance on a mass scale came to exist, but you can’t remember a moment of your career that it didn’t give you a wild advantage or cripple you.

The doors to the suite open thanks to Root, and you clear the large penthouse. You come up disappointingly empty. 

“Finch,” Reese says into his earpiece, “Is there another way out of this place?”

“I’ll pull up the blueprints now,” Harold responds. You hope he moves quickly, because the last thing you wanted was Vladislav and his crooked henchmen getting away.

“There’s a service elevator on the west side of the building,” Root said dauntingly. The west side of the building is where they were stationed. You heard the hacker reload her weapon over the line, knowing full well she’d sacrifice herself over Finch.

“Finch and Root,” you feel yourself say as you bolt for the stairs, not bothering to wait for Fusco and Reese. 

You don’t remember your legs moving so slow in your life. 

Maybe you were worried about Finch. His life’s work helped people more than harmed them, and you’d hate to see the Machine’s creator go down by a bullet hole filled wayside. Or maybe you didn’t have a preference for the man at all. 

If you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t want to think about finding Root on the floor in a pool of her own blood. You knew the hacker didn’t necessarily value her own life, rather that she felt she was a small piece in this particular game of chess Samaritan, the Machine, Decima and the Bratva had going on.

When the doors pull themselves apart at the ground floor, the first thing you see are a half a dozen bodies on the floor, all groaning in pain. Nearly every Bratva member had a bullet lodged in their legs. 

You rush to the control centre and see a sweaty Finch awkwardly holding a gun in his hands. “Behind you, Mr. Reese,” he shouts hurriedly into his comm line. You hear a couple bullets and a body thud to the ground in your ear. “Ms. Shaw. We finally got eyes up-”

“Where’s Root?”

You had no time for bullshit. Either she was alive or she was hurt, and you needed to know what you should be prepared for.

“She saved my life,” Harold says in a small voice, very unlike himself. “Ms. Groves is out front securing the perimeter. She’ll be fine, Ms. Shaw.”

You reload the M4 you picked up off a Bratva angrily. After all this time, Finch finally understood that Root was one of them, that she wasn’t the kidnapping murderer that he knew all those months ago. Harold Finch was always too little, too late, and all of you have suffered for it - even if he was the one who brought you all together.

You remember Detective Carter then. You often wonder, when you’re on a stakeout with Reese and he casually brings her up, if you two would’ve been better friends had she survived Officer Simmons’ wrath. She deserved better than what she got in your books - and a lot of that was on Finch. You knew Reese didn’t hold a grudge against his employer, but deep down, you do. 

You couldn’t trust the man to not make the same mistake twice.

“She’s dealing with a bunch of armed Bratva, with Samaritan in their pockets, by herself. That doesn't sound fine to me. That sounds like someone who needs backup,” you verbally assailed, not bothering to listen to Finch’s excuses. Reese and Fusco were fine on their own - they could secure Vladislav for all you care. Root needed you.

Your feet drag themselves toward the entrance of their own volition until you hear rapid gunfire. You come up behind an armed gunman and put him in a chokehold until he passes out, his pistol dropping to the ground. You stick it in your belt  _ just in case _ .

Outside the glass doors, you see Root ducking for cover behind a car in the middle of a gun fight. She’s managed to take down several men (who all miraculously still seem to be breathing), and you have to admit you’re impressed. You’re anything but unprepared, so using the element of surprise to your advantage, you throw a pipe bomb toward those who have Root pinned down.

In what sounded like a sea of coughing, you took the opportunity to join Root behind the vehicle. You sent a few bullets in the Bratva’s direction just to be thorough, but dove your way to cover. 

Root had a few scratches on her much to your chagrin. Her golden brown hair was matted to her face in certain places from sweat and she had ripped a piece of cloth (off of one of the Bratva, you surmise) and tied it around a wound on her forearm. There weren’t any lethal injuries on her upon first glance, so that was enough for you to focus on the task at hand.

“Root, did you really have to Iron Man your way out here? You could’ve been killed,” you lecture, fully aware that there were people on the other side of the car waiting to end you both.

“She’s talking to me again,” Root smiles, unloading a few bullets perfectly onto several Bratva. “Besides, Harry was fine on his own.”

You fire a few rounds yourself, hitting a thug in the shoulder. “He was shaking and clutching a 9mm to his chest. I’d say he was far from fine.”

Root smirks in the way that she does, every time she pisses you off. It started out as a form of amusement for her, you’re sure, but this one was a bit more genuine than the rest.

“Whatever happened in there, it lead us here,” Root smiles and takes a moment before speaking again, reloading her weapon in the process. “You know, Schrödinger said that at its base level, the universe isn't made up of physical matter. Just shapes. I thought that might make you feel better if either of us perish today.

“A shape, you know? Nothing firm. The real world is essentially a simulation anyway. I like that idea. That even if we're not real, we represent a dynamic. A tiny finger tracing a line in the infinite. A shape. And then we're gone.”

You sneer at Root’s momentary existential drabble. "That's supposed to make me feel better? I'm a shape?"

"Yeah, and darlin'? You've got a great shape," Root side smirks while giving you an up and down. 

You’re appalled at Root’s ability to make jokes while bullets fly over her head. You hear yelling in the distance and the sound of two Chevy Suburbans pulling up. 

“Root, Shaw,” you hear Fusco over the comm line. “Reese and I are pinned down by a butt load of Bratva. Zhirova is making a run for the exit.”

You visibly see Root’s heart leap into her stomach. Right on cue, you see Vladislav making a run for it from a side exit of the building.

You sigh and at a lame attempt to bring Root back to reality, you mutter, “If what you’re saying is we're just information, just noise in the system. We might as well be a-"

“Symphony,” Root grins knowingly. In unison you both stand at full height and shoot your way to Vladislav and his henchmen. Bratva drop like a steadily burning building while you and Root are consonance, two notes coming together making a congenial sound.

Vlad slips into one of the vehicles and you think _oh, no you don’t_  to yourself. You shoot out the tires from one of the Suburbans and Vladislav noticeably switches vehicles. “C’mon,” you hear their pitiful leader squawk. “Don’t just stand there, get me the fuck out of here before they kill me.”

The hacker takes out the last of the Bratva while you make a run for it after the Suburban, shooting as many bullets as you have left at the gas tank. You remember the weapon hidden in your belt and begin hurling those rounds too. You hit it once, twice, then stop running as you hit the tank once more. 

You’re out of bullets, but before you know it, Root strolls up to you and blows out the back two tires, casting the Chevy into a tizzy.

The truck flips three times in the street in the matter of seconds. The blast is enough to have killed most of the men in the Suburban, if not all of them.

You grin at Root with a taste of victory on your lips. She tosses you a spare weapon as you approach the totaled vehicle.

 

//

 

Once you drag a barely conscious Vlad out of the car, you and Root gave Reese and Fusco an assist in the penthouse. Finch, although traumatized by nearly having to fire a gun, turned up unscathed.

Gen’s criminally insane father was coming to, but you were on watch so he didn’t escape. Fusco was calling all of this in to the station while Reese tended to Harold, who was copying the illegal activities of the Bratva onto a hard drive.

Although this project had Decima written all over it, you were sure that they would’ve covered their tracks in the human trafficking ring. “They were trafficking underage people all over the country,” Finch had mentioned, a disgusted awe in his voice. All to prepare the youth of the United States to be slaves for an evil all seeing ASI.

It made you sick how the people who were truly responsible probably wouldn’t get theirs. Greer never got his hands dirty, not really, and he couldn’t have this tied to him or his clandestine operation.  _ That’s a battle for another day. Today we won. _

“You should’ve joined me when you had the chance, Sameen,” Vladislav sneered before getting a pistol whip to the back of the head.

“I’m the only one allowed to call her Sameen,” Root spits, and you can’t help but laugh. Even staring in the face of human poison. Bad code, as the hacker would say.

“I’ll get released. Decima will hire the best lawyers dirty money can buy,” Vladislav laughs mirthlessly, blood sticking to his face and his clothes. There was glass on several parts of his suit jacket and if he didn’t get medical attention soon, he’d most likely bleed out.

“Interesting that you’d think that, Vlad. Where was Greer and his men tonight?” You ask, your gun pointed at his face. “With Samaritan on your side, you’d think all of this could’ve been avoided.”

Vladislav grows angrier at that. If he wasn’t bleeding out and unarmed you know he would’ve unloaded a few bullets onto you for your words. But tonight, lady luck was on your side.

“You’ll never get Genrika,” he spits. “She’s  _ my _ daughter, I’ll have your head-”

You get up out of your chair at mention of Gen, and shove your pistol on the underside of Vlad’s chin.

“The thing about villains is, you love to hear yourselves speak way too much,” you say before Reese shows up, whipping him a second time, which knocks him out cold. “Get him out of here.”

Fusco shows up in his squad car and pulls his cuffs out. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” the detective says, a bruise forming on his upper lip. He didn’t have to help you tonight, but at this very moment, you’re thankful that you have four people you can count on. Despite their flaws. “I’m just peachy by the way, thanks for asking.”


End file.
